


The Anatomy of Love

by Jartiel



Category: Mission: Impossible, Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-03 18:02:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17882594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jartiel/pseuds/Jartiel
Summary: The parts of the human body associated with its five main senses. These are just tiny snippets of Benji and Ethan's lives in which their trivial observations are a byproduct of something far greater than anything they've ever felt before.





	1. Hands

  
Ethan

Benji’s hands have always been beautiful.

They do not possess the lithe delicacy of a woman's, but they are strong and slender when pressed against Ethan's skin. 

The tip of a forefinger taps in idle measure against the groove of the tabletop. For three hours and counting, it doesn’t stop to rest. 

Above their tin roof passes the distant buzz of helicopter blades, muffled and dampened by the clouds.

A sigh of frustration is stifled through Benji’s nose. His finger continues its rhythm in _tempo rubato._

From his corner nest, Ethan swipes a rag down his pristine Glock for the umpteenth time.

His watch strikes midnight; Benji’s laptop speaker chirps with the smallest of bells. The tapping ceases in momentum, then halts altogether. 

Ethan watches as Benji’s fingers fly over the keyboard like a conductor’s over an ensemble. Those hands have directed his path to safety more times than he could keep track of. He sits and watches them pause their work to press points into weary temples.

It has been a long day.

Concurrent rest is seldom permitted on missions such as this, but when the third hour of dawn approaches, Ethan invites Benji into his threadbare cocoon anyway. 

His hands are like ice from having been spread over the freezing keyboard throughout most of the night. Ethan holds them between his own and blows warm breath over each curling finger.

“S’alright,” Benji protests when his hands are dragged under Ethan’s shirt. Ethan ignores him and holds them flush against the source of his body heat. “You’ll be cold.”

“But you won’t be,” Ethan says back. He doesn’t relinquish his hold on Benji’s hands for a long time. Only when he feels the last of their chill melt away upon his chest does he let them be pulled away. 

He recalls the way these hands have patted his shoulder for the first time. Tended to his wounds for the first time, stitched his thumb back together. The way they held his face and pulled him close for the first time.

Ethan thinks of how he lies here and still draws breath to this day. 

“Thank you for keeping me alive,” he whispers. 

One pale fingertip flutters in Benji's sleep. 

~0~

Benji

It is more out of habit than anything else, but Benji and Ethan sleep in rotating shifts even on their days off.

During the day, they rarely find themselves in the same room at any given time. If Ethan is not busy with conference calls and mission reports, he is digging through textbooks to keep his languages fresh. Other times, he will be exercising with the few machines they’ve managed to assemble in their bedroom.

It is rare for Benji to catch Ethan in bed by the time he returns home from his regular evening jogs. There are used towels drying on the chair by the tiny corner desk. Ethan doesn’t flinch when Benji perches atop the corner of the bed, nor when the hallway light spills across the darkened room and over his brow.

Ethan’s hands are tan, roughened, and bestrewn with scars of all shapes and sizes. One pinky finger is off kilter from the rest, having been poorly set and mended at a crooked angle. There are old blisters that have hardened into permanent calluses in the skin. Pale remnants of bad stitchwork down the length of a thumb. Faded outlines of cigarette burns across his palm. 

Years upon years of hardship and no reprieve in sight. Ethan has saved more lives than he can ever hope to count, including Benji’s own. 

Benji thinks of Ethan taking refuge in darkened safe houses, cold and lonely. He thinks of Ethan cradling his broken and bleeding hand as he rummages for antiseptic wipes, while vermin scuttle in the corners of the room.

It is too much. 

A drop of wetness falls directly over one of the many discolorations marring Ethan’s hands. He locks eyes with Ethan, who had awoken at some point and is now watching solemnly from his pillow. Benji blinks, surprised. 

“Don’t be sad,” Ethan murmurs, but the sentiment is reflected in his shadowed face, his downturned mouth. 

“I’m sorry.” 

For all the hurts you have endured. For every scar I could not prevent. For every moment I spent hiding behind a monitor, and failing to protect you when I could. 

Ethan’s hands have always been beautiful.

Benji lets him dry the tears with the thumb that carries the ridges left behind by nine, shaky sutures.


	2. Eyes

Benji

Benji doesn’t doubt that Ethan has seen some truly gruesome things in his life.

Such evidence shows itself in more roundabout ways: how his eyes hardly waver in the greatest emergencies, how they hide under tired shadows, how their corners are marked with crow’s feet that seem to grow with every time he smiles. 

However, Ethan’s eyes are never cruel; they have never once been tarnished by the tragedies they bear witness to. And every time they look at Benji, it is with nothing but fondness and love.

When he laughs and tilts his head just so, the greens reveal a smattering of gold that dust the pupil edges. But even when the colors are muted by the dark, Benji loves the way Ethan’s eyes shimmer when bathed in the city lights. 

New York City is not as romantic nor picturesque like the posters claim to be. Times Square is littered with trash and the pungent smell of sewage permeates through the nightly chill. 

Benji fights his way through the crowd and tries not to trip over pigeons and other people’s feet. Their target is tagged after nearly twenty minutes in pursuit. It is now up for the rest of the team back at headquarters to keep track of their footprints. 

He and Ethan return to their hastily set up equipment upon the summit of a commercial tower. They await their next orders in silence, listening to the buzzing nightlife below them.

“Do you ever think about moving to a place like this?” 

His gaze is torn from the tracking monitor at the unexpected inquiry. 

“No,” Benji answers, hesitant. “It’s overpopulated.” 

It’ll be easy to lose your bearings. As much as they can hide with ease, enemies shall do the same. However, practicality doesn’t seem to be at the forefront of Ethan’s mind today. 

“We’d rush to catch taxis and buses on time.” He is watching the edge of the night horizon which forever glows with artificial fluorescence. “We can make dinner reservations. Our biggest worries would be how we’d miss the start of our movie. How we’d left our umbrellas back home when it starts to rain. How the traffic is so bad, it’s past midnight when we finally get home.”

He speaks of anonymity. The freedom to do whatever they want, to live life the way they are supposed to. 

Benji agrees. 

“We could be anyone.” Ethan stands much too close to the ledge for Benji’s comfort, but even the fiercest of Manhattan’s winds could not have shaken the solidity of his stance. “Wouldn’t you like that?”

Anyone without a name. Just another face in the sea of millions that blends into one another like ants bustling over a carcass.

“I’d still prefer myself as Benji,” he confesses softly. “That way, I could still be with you.”

Ethan finally steps away from the dizzying ledge and closes the distance between them. “There is only one Benji Dunn,” he whispers, “and I will always be his.”

Green eyes and gold dust. Benji cannot make out any such color in the dark, but it matters not. Tonight, Ethan’s eyes are radiant with the reflection of hundreds of streetlight galaxies and neon stars.

~0~

Ethan

Without taking work-relevant subjects into account, Ethan hates relatively few things.

For example, he might hate the smell of cigarettes. Boisterous party music during the nights. Those giant, rectangular marshmallows that some hotels have the audacity to call mattresses. 

Otherwise, Ethan always hesitates to associate that word to how he feels. But if there is one thing he can say he loathes with absolute confidence, it is the way anguish reddens Benji’s eyes. 

It’s the first thing he sees when he wakes. Beautiful steel blue eyes that Ethan loved so much, red-rimmed and weary with pain. It's as if knives have speared his limbs all over again and cleaved his chest in two. 

Up until now, Ethan has always done everything to amend the situation to the best of his ability. But today, he cannot do anything. He cannot speak around the EI that feeds down his throat. He cannot pull Benji into an embrace because of the fractured radius and bruised ribs. He cannot reach out to hold Benji’s hand, because the arm that’s not bound in a cast is suspended by external fixators.

Benji’s eyes are swollen and deceptively dry, as if the misery has run its course and his body can spare no more. He keeps staring at the bolts and rods that protrude from Ethan’s fingers to help set shattered bone.

The tip of his pinky is all he has control of. Ethan tries to control its spasmodic movements into sloppy Morse letters.

_R — U — O K_

It only works to amplify the agony in Benji’s eyes with tenfold strength. Robbed of all means of acceptable communication, Ethan can only whimper at the sight. 

“Don’t do this anymore,” Benji cries, clutching the edges of thin hospital sheets. “I’m begging you. Not anymore.”

But he must. Of course he must. He wants to be the source of light that brightens Benji’s eyes. It is the only thing he's allowed himself to indulge in, after all.

And yet, despite having taken the brunt of all physical harm, he has still failed. Tears tickle Ethan’s cheeks and loosen the seal of his oxygen mask.

The nerves in his hand are aflame from the meager exertion, but he still lifts his finger once more.

_I — L O V E — U_

Like the first break of sunlight through the blackened storm clouds, Benji's eyes lift in a wobbly smile. 


	3. Nose

  
Ethan

It is Ethan’s personal preference to keep their intimacy between themselves.

As much as he likes the idea of showing the world just exactly whom he belongs to, it feels nice to reserve some things for Benji’s eyes only. 

So naturally, he is delighted to discover that Benji happens to feel the same way about blatant PDA.

Even in the office, it is rare for them to go beyond anything more than gentle touches on the arm or shoulder. Sometimes Brandt jokingly asks if they’ve been fighting. Distance is mistaken for aversion. Brandt doesn’t understand how all touches exchanged between Ethan and Benji have always lingered seconds longer than those between others. 

We are all mature, grown-ass men. That is how Luther puts it, every time he catches Brandt wiggling his brow. 

In the privacy of their home, Ethan is free to take the extra step required to eliminate the space between their chests. These embraces have become routine, as soon as they step into their abode and the locks click into place. 

Ethan loves every inch of Benji’s body, but one thing he utterly adores is planting the tiniest of kisses to Benji’s nose. 

A good morning peck. A ‘thank you for the coffee’ peck. Perhaps a few just for passing each other in the hall. Ethan takes advantage of every opportunity, and it drives Benji crazy. 

“Why do you keep doing that?” he asks one day, after Ethan has leaned across the table and over their papers for absolutely no reason. “You can kiss me properly, you know.”

“I do know,” Ethan replies earnestly. “Remember last night?”

Benji splutters, ears glowing a magnificent pink. “You know what I mean.”

“You get this look on your face I really like,” Ethan confesses. “But I can stop if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“It’s not that. I swear, it’ll be permanently chafed at this rate. I’ll be going around looking like bloody Rudolph.”

Ethan hums, thoughtful. “That would be cute.” 

“Kindly bugger off.” 

“Sure.” Ethan stands with their empty mugs, but dives in at the last second to steal one final peck from the tip of Benji’s nose.

~0~

Benji

It only takes one miscalculated step for a mission to go tits up.

Every second Benji has spent yelling at Ethan’s dot on his monitor feels like ten lifetimes stretched into eternity, and then suddenly the man himself is crashing through the door with a handful of former Yakuza thugs hot on his heels. 

The next three minutes can only be described as utter pandemonium in its purest, most undiluted form. It is impossible to tranquilize all their assailants, but Benji sticks a dart in two of them while the rest drop with bullets in their skulls.

They’ve certainly been through worse, but it doesn’t make things any less terrible. Once again, most of the damage has fallen unto one person.

Ethan’s nose is spurting blood like a geyser with no signs of stopping. “Cuff theb,” he says thickly, clutching Benji’s balled up jumper to his face. “Drug’s teh’borary.”

Benji rushes to cuff their captives while they await extraction. He swiftly returns to Ethan’s side once finished. “I’m sorry. I should have known they’d be expecting us.”

“S’okay. Dot your fauld.”

He urges Ethan to lean into his hand, lessening the strain on his neck from keeping his head tilted down. “Are you all right?” Benji asks, worried.

“I’b fide,” Ethan replies. “By dose is busted.”

“So it would seem."

If Benji is honest, he is surprised it hasn't happened more often. Out of all the things in a human body, noses were quite susceptible to breakage. And with how Ethan's favourite pastime seemed to be diving headfirst into danger... 

Behind the gory jumper, Ethan’s eyes are twinkling with mirth. “Will you still love be if I’b ugly?”

It is truly remarkable how this man still manages to say such insufferable things while Benji is busy panicking about stuff that actually matters. 

Of course, when Ethan is released from the hospital, the little bump on his nose is new and here to stay. And yet somehow, he looks just as stunning as he did before his face got bashed in. 

“Still love me, right?” Ethan asks, grinning cheekily. 

Benji resists the urge to roll his eyes.


	4. Ears

  
Benji

Benji opens his eyes to an early Friday morning.

He had been dreaming, but the details slip past the fingers of his mind the more he tries grasping at them. The only evidence for the dream’s transient existence is the wetness on his face. The room is still swathed in relative darkness, which he is glad for. 

To his left is Ethan. He, who complained about the subtropical heat all evening, had escaped to the very edges of the bed at some point, away from the insulation of their massive duvet. 

Benji dries his face on his nightshirt before shuffling closer to his partner. Despite having shed all layers, sweat still dampens the dark tufts of hair. Benji latches himself to the broad expanse of Ethan’s bare back. 

The hand which reaches around to press against Ethan’s breastbone vibrates with each vital pulse of his heartbeat. Benji kisses the warm skin on his shoulder, the sharp outline of his jaw. 

Ethan doesn't stir, his breaths falling slow and languidly. 

“Thank you.” Benji mouths the words but doesn’t speak them. Instead, he allows his lips to ghost gently across the shell of Ethan’s ear. “For being mine.”

He’s done nothing to deserve even a fraction of this man. The least he can do is let Ethan know of all the things he’s made Benji feel. But alas, he has always been hopeless at romantic speeches. 

Benji buries his nose into the nape of Ethan’s neck. “I love you.”

He must have dreamed the pair of arms embracing him shortly after. It must have been a dream when Ethan whispers his own gratitude into Benji’s ear, when fingers caress lovingly down his cheek.

When he wakes again, the room is bright, and Ethan’s arms still hold him close. Benji smiles.

  
Ethan

When the dust settles, Ethan lifts his head above the sea of rubble. Violent coughs tear themselves out of his throat. The ringing in his ears fade into unsettling silence.

“Benji?” The brunt of the explosion had been muted by the tower of crates stacked over the live dynamite. “Benji, are you all right?”

He receives no answer, but Ethan sees movement up ahead. He crawls to his feet and limps to where Benji lies moaning, sprawled across charred, splintering wood. “That was close. Thank God those crates were there, we’d have all been done for.”

Benji makes no move to acknowledge what he said. When Ethan touches a trembling shoulder, he yelps and throws himself backwards. 

“Hey, don’t worry.” Ethan shows his palms. “Are you okay?”

“Ethan.” In the wake of the blast, Benji sounds strange. His voice breaks like sheet glass against a stone cliff and his cheeks are losing color rapidly. “Ethan, I can’t—I can’t hear. Oh, God, Ethan—” 

He finally sees the blood that sluggishly dribbles out of Benji’s ears, down his neck and staining the collars of his shirt. 

Ethan's legs collapse out under him.

It is only after they’re flown back to the city and the doctor calls him into Benji’s room does he allow his lungs to draw proper breaths. Ethan sinks into one of the chairs by the bed, grabbing Benji’s hand and attention at the same time.

“It’s temporary.” He speaks slow and deliberately to give Benji ample time to read his lips. “You’re okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Benji’s lips twitch into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Brandt calls several times to insist he finish his mission report, but Ethan ignores him in favour of keeping Benji company. He scavenges the hospital for all their vending machines, looking for Benji’s favourite snacks and drinks. He brings back magazines from the waiting room. Benji doesn’t speak throughout most of it. 

Then, that night, Benji startles him with a tiny, “Ethan.”

“Yes?” It’s difficult to make out shapes in the dark, so Ethan turns on the table lights by the bed. 

“I miss you.” The grief is palpable, even when Benji doesn't speak above a whisper.

“I’m right here,” Ethan reassures. “I’ve been here this whole time.”

“It’s too quiet.”

“I know. I’m staying until it gets better.”

Benji’s eyes are bright when they search Ethan’s. “And what if it doesn’t?”

“The doctors say it’s temporary." He refuses to entertain the thought of the other possibility. "It’ll last a couple days at most—”

“But what if it doesn’t? I won’t be allowed in the field anymore. I won’t be able to talk to you—” Benji cuts himself off, burrowing his face into the palm of one bandaged hand. 

“No, no. Please, don’t look away from me.” Ethan pries his finger away until he makes eye contact again. “What you said is not going to happen. But Benji, even if it does... there are many other ways we can communicate. We’ll brush up on our ASL, write letters...”

“What’s the point?” Benji chokes. “I’ll never be able to hear your voice again.”

The notion frightens him. "I'll still speak to you." It's a cold, dreadful weight at the pit of his stomach. Ethan's own eyes have begun to sting. "I'll tell you how much I love you. Every single day. And if you're not awake to see me, I'll write it out on paper. If there is no paper, I'll trace them out on your skin. I'll whisper it into your lips."

Through his misery, Benji manages a huff of watery laughter. "You're so good to me."

Not good enough, Ethan thinks. Never good enough, if I'm always causing you so much pain.

And when Benji is released three days later, it is with fully restored hearing functionality. Despite it all, Ethan still keeps his promise. Every night ends with an 'I love you', either whispered into Benji's ear, written out on paper, or traced out on his skin.


	5. Mouth/Lips

  
Ethan and Benji

When they return from a long mission overseas, it’s always the same routine. Security checks, quick showers, and then they can finally breathe.

Exhaustion grinds their bones and knots their muscles. When the door closes behind them, they simply collapse into the bed and each other, and take turns rubbing the debilitating tension out of their backs. 

Today, Benji isn’t melting into Ethan’s skillful massage. Perhaps he’s gotten rusty? Ethan hasn’t given Benji a backrub in what feels like ages. The mission had taken months to complete, and they had both spent their nights nodding off in various tents and sleeping bags for a couple hours at best. 

“Is it not working?” he asks, when he continues to press in between high-strung shoulder blades to no avail. 

“Mm,” Benji mumbles into his pillow. “Think m’just...”

“Would you like some more Voltaren?”

“No, it’s fine. That’s enough, Ethan, thank you.” 

Ethan rests his weight upon one elbow and stays close while Benji worms under the duvet. “Will you talk to me?”

Benji has curled into himself and refuses to meet his eyes. “About what?”

“Anything.” Ethan leans into the warmth of Benji’s body and squishes his face into the nape of his neck. The way Benji likes it, the way it makes him laugh. 

But he doesn’t flinch at the ticklish feeling. His shoulders don’t shake with stifled giggles. Slightly disheartened, Ethan rests his hand in one of Benji’s. Fingers squeeze back in reassurance. 

“Why don’t you kiss me more often?”

“...I’m sorry?”

Of all the things Ethan has expected him to say, this is not one of them.

“Kissing.” The forced nonchalance in his voice comes at the cost of his shoulders returning to their marble state. “Not those silly nose pecks, real kisses. You rarely do it.”

“But I kiss you all the time.”

“Sure, only when we’re having sex.” 

Ethan feels like he’s been plunged into arctic waters, robbed of all warmth and oxygen. “Benji, I'm so sorry—I’d never—”

“Shit. That’s not what I was implying.” Benji is scrambling to face him now, stricken. “I’m not doubting your intentions, Ethan. I'm sorry."

“No, I'm sorry. I love everything about you.” Ethan still struggles to calm his frightened heart, to speak past the hurt that dampens his eyes and clogs his throat. “And if I _ever_ made you feel like I was—I was just—”

“Ethan, please.” Benji’s hands find his face and stroke his hair lovingly. “I’ve never once felt like I was being used, or whatever you think I was implying.”

Even if it is to refute them, Ethan still hates hearing Benji say such things. "Then what's the problem?"

“It's been so long since we've last seen each other, and I... I just wanted to kiss you more— _really_ kiss you—outside of the bedroom, but you rarely do it and I wanted to know why. It's stupid, I know.”

Ethan reaches to mirror Benji’s gesture. “No, it’s not.” His thumb strokes across the endearing scruff on his jawline. “I don’t do it very much because you looked uncomfortable when I did.”

Benji’s hand froze mid-stroke in his hair. “I beg your pardon?”

“Remember that one time back in Edinburgh? I tried to kiss you and you pulled away and avoided me for three hours straight?”

“That was—Ethan, Jesus. That was almost a year ago.”

“Time doesn't change the fact that you didn't like it.”

Ethan has never had too difficult of a time reading Benji's expressions, but right now he cannot tell what the man is thinking as they lie there staring into each other's eyes. "Were you really planning on living out the rest of our lives without kissing me on a sofa once?"

"It made you uncomfortable, so of course."

Finally, Benji breaks into huffs of laughter, both exasperated and adoring. "You're impossible, Ethan Hunt."

It's unclear as to what sort of conclusion they've arrived to, but it's good to see him smiling again. "I think there should be an IMF punchline or two in there," Ethan mumbles back. Benji rolls his eyes.

"I was just really embarrassed; I didn't want you thinking I was desperate or something just as pathetic—no, I know it's not actually pathetic—Christ, will you just _listen"_ —he overrides Ethan's protests with raised volume—"anyway, we'd just started dating and I didn't want to overwhelm you with how much I'd wanted it."

"Oh, Benji." The tidal wave sweeps his conscience into a pool of relief, even if the edges are still stained with residual unease.

"And if you need me to say it, no I was not uncomfortable. In the slightest."

There are only so many ways he can say 'I love you', as Ethan is not gifted with the verbal adequacy required to express such a feeling in the ways he'd like.

Their foreheads touch as Benji closes his eyes, the smile still lingering in the dimples of his cheeks. "I'd very much like to kiss you, now," he whispers.

It's all the permission he needs. Ethan leans in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this short, 5-chapter writing challenge that I'd set for myself. Even though they aren't full-fledged narratives, it was good practice for me and it's so wonderful that I could bring some enjoyment to others at the same time! <3

**Author's Note:**

> I've challenged myself to only 1 hour per chapter, including editing. So that gives me thirty minutes per PoV, so they're not as extensively detailed as I would like them to be. This time limit was an attempt to stop my tendency to ramble... let's see if it helps.


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